I Would Keep Myself
by O'MalleytheAlleyCat
Summary: Set Season Five. Sam and Dean sit in different motel rooms, but they do the same things and think the same things. They see the other so far away and forget that they are always so close.


Set Season Five.

* * *

Sam sat on the floor, staring at the gun in his hands. Consternation was written across his features. The bullet was in his hand, it had already been fired, he'd pried it from the wall with one of his knives. The drywall was sprinkled on the carpet under him and there was dust on his forearms, a light sprinkling of white which clung to the fine hairs on his forearms.

His mind was numb at this point, he was unsure about the reason but he thought with a little hope that it was the fact that just a few minutes earlier he'd had his brains blown out, or not all his brains, just most of the parietal lobe, the brainstem, and a small bit of the cerebellum. It should have been enough, but it wasn't. Sam wondered why that was, because shouldn't something made up of more than one part be unable to function without the other? Shouldn't he collapse without Dean there, that steady back facing him as Dean placed himself in front of all the danger and the pain?

Sam smoothed his thumb over the glinting metal of the gun, trying to push away the tacky blood and his own thumbprint. If only he could take all the blood back. He clenched his eyes shut and regretted. He'd taken away the parietal lobe, that piece of machinery responsible for the sensory system, why then wasn't he not seeing anything, why hadn't it all been taken away? Should he have aimed for the hippocampus?

Tightening his grip on the gun, Sam raised it once again, the muzzle setting against his lips, he opened his mouth then, letting metal click against teeth until they yielded. His other hand still held the previous bullet. With that hand shaking, he moved it to the side without looking and dropped in a pile of used bullets. They had worked as well as their newest addition.

Sam opened his eyes, blinked, thought about tears and realized he wasn't sure if he deserved to shed them. Without a thought he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Dean sat on the floor, staring at the knife in his hands. It was Ruby's knife, a knife which had betrayed her. He wondered if it would do so to him. It seemed important to test that, to test if his skin would burn and the blessed metal would reveal his true nature. Maybe instead it would take him away and fix everything. He knew how to dispatch monsters. He did not know how to dispatch anger, to kill pain, to rid the world of hurt. It settled on his shoulders as something, the only thing, he was supposed to do. At least for him, at least for the only person he'd ever promised anything.

The knife was cold so he let the blade rest on his forearm, to lend his warmth, to give it life. The motel had wallpaper, old mildewed wallpaper. It had flowers on it, once white posies set against a vibrant yellow. At least, Dean imagined the sickly cream to have once been white and the faded yellow to be vibrant. Things weren't made broken, were they? He'd have to ask S-, well ask someone about that, someone smart. The answers weren't exactly forthcoming anymore, not that they'd ever been.

The knife was warm, he knew, he could barely feel it anymore laying on his skin, just the perceptible weight. So he dug it in, was almost surprised to see the red liquid he was so familiar with, it was like seeing an old friend at an unexpected place. He nearly asked it what it'd been doing the last few years, what it was like without him. This was clearly human blood.

The knife dug a little deeper, revealing more of this old friend, and he wondered if it was sweet. Sam had always loved candy, maybe that was-. Dean had always loved playing with sweet things, that would explain a few things. Ten years of playing and one year of rest yet he was still tired.

He changed hands, letting the knife gain familiarity with both of his palms. It seemed fitting that it should cross both left and right. Dean was a little quicker to dig the sharpened edge in, blood flowed. Was this betrayal if he guided it to where it should strike and prompted it to do so? Was it Sam he'd lost if it was Sam who stared at him in apology?

Dropping the knife, Dean let his head fall back against that faded wallpaper and he stared at the ceiling. There was a nice growth of mold creeping across the span of the box room.

* * *

Sam woke up to a replaced hippocampus and the taste of gunpowder on his tongue. The gun was lying on the ground, a little more dirtied, blood was so unclean, maybe just his. Sam pulled out his little penknife, and turned to the wall. It was a Rorschach of splattered blood. He thought of what he saw, but it just looked like blood bordering the small important hole in the wall. Sam dug the little blade into the wall once again. The drywall gave way with ease, coughing up dust and eventually a used bullet.

Sam wrapped his fingers around it, feeling the little piece of metal warm up in the center of his palm. Sam eyed the gun.

Maybe, he could start again, he could keep himself this time, maybe he'd wake up as Sam. Everyone could come back and see the miracle. Hope was what caused him to seize the gun.

* * *

Dean woke up to forearms that were scarred as usual. No nice straight lines, nothing premeditated or desired. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat. The knife was resting where he'd dropped it, blood crusting on it. Dean picked it up and thumbed the ricasso, wondering at the bluntness. Betrayal sat on the horizon, or maybe the little piece of metal had tired of a life of duplicity. The blood was soaked into his pants and it was uncomfortable. Dean just shifted a little, adjusting his jeans so they didn't pinch at his genitals.

Dean stared at the knife, maybe he could start again, he could keep himself this time, maybe he'd be the someone he vaguely remembered. There had been laughter, and happiness. He glared at the knife, if only this time it would remember its true nature. Hope was what caused him to grip the handle, forefinger stroking the guard.

* * *

Sam pressed the gun in his mouth once again, he thought less when he pulled the trigger this time.

* * *

Dean cut into his skin once again, the act ever so familiar.

* * *

Sam didn't blink, everything gone in an instant.

* * *

Dean blinked lazily, relishing the slow descent.

* * *

In two hotel rooms red was being painted.


End file.
